[One of the
daughters
of Mrs.
Robert Forst
I trust the spring will renew your shattered
frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that
life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to
a reasoning eye, is,
"Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams
Athwart their gloom profound. "[183]
But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave,
the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods
of the valley, be it so: at least there is an end of pain, care, woes,
and wants: if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent
destruction of the man--away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every
age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as the
many are always weak, of consequence, they have often, perhaps always,
been deceived; a man conscious of having acted an honest part among
his fellow-creatures--even granting that he may have been the sport at
times of passions and instincts--he goes to a great unknown Being, who
could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy,
who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force.
These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself,
particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and
where, indeed, all men are equally in the dark.
Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 183: Blair's Grave. ]
* * * * *
CVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch of Coila from
Burns's poem of the Vision: it is still in existence, and is said to
have merit. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th March, 1788. _
MADAM,
The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me most, so
I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a
sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess: but I have taxed my
recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the
devil; at least as Milton described him; and though I may be rascally
enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but
you are sure of being respectable--you can afford to pass by an
occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your
sense; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the
gratitude of many, and the esteem of all; but, God help us, who are
wits or witlings by profession, if we stand for fame there, we sink
unsupported!
I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to
the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to
Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the bye, I took the
idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which
perhaps you have never seen:)--
Ye shak your heads, but o' my fegs,
Ye've sat auld Scota on her legs:
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs,
Bumbaz'd and dizzie,
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs.
Wae's me, poor hizzie. "
R. B.
* * * * *
CIX.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The uncouth cares of which the poet complains in this letter were the
construction of a common farmhouse, with barn, byre, and stable to
suit.
frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that
life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to
a reasoning eye, is,
"Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams
Athwart their gloom profound. "[183]
But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave,
the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods
of the valley, be it so: at least there is an end of pain, care, woes,
and wants: if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent
destruction of the man--away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every
age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as the
many are always weak, of consequence, they have often, perhaps always,
been deceived; a man conscious of having acted an honest part among
his fellow-creatures--even granting that he may have been the sport at
times of passions and instincts--he goes to a great unknown Being, who
could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy,
who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force.
These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself,
particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and
where, indeed, all men are equally in the dark.
Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 183: Blair's Grave. ]
* * * * *
CVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch of Coila from
Burns's poem of the Vision: it is still in existence, and is said to
have merit. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th March, 1788. _
MADAM,
The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me most, so
I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a
sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess: but I have taxed my
recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the
devil; at least as Milton described him; and though I may be rascally
enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but
you are sure of being respectable--you can afford to pass by an
occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your
sense; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the
gratitude of many, and the esteem of all; but, God help us, who are
wits or witlings by profession, if we stand for fame there, we sink
unsupported!
I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to
the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to
Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the bye, I took the
idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which
perhaps you have never seen:)--
Ye shak your heads, but o' my fegs,
Ye've sat auld Scota on her legs:
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs,
Bumbaz'd and dizzie,
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs.
Wae's me, poor hizzie. "
R. B.
* * * * *
CIX.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The uncouth cares of which the poet complains in this letter were the
construction of a common farmhouse, with barn, byre, and stable to
suit.
